


The Masochism of Self-Defence

by greyorchids



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Consensual Violence, Dominant Kylo Ren, Drug Abuse, F/M, POV Rey (Star Wars), Redeemed Ben Solo, References to Depression, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 08:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyorchids/pseuds/greyorchids
Summary: Rey Johnson is a detective with the Boston PD who has worked hard for her badge. Her life hasn’t gifted her with the best fortune or stability, but she has found ways to achieve an escape. Even if it’s been dangerous and temporary. When she is assigned a new partner she soon finds herself, and her secrets, unravelled.





	The Masochism of Self-Defence

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beautiful (inside and out) beta, [LoveofEscapism.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveofEscapism/)You can also follow her on Tumblr [here.](http://loveofescapism.tumblr.com/)
> 
> This story depicts consensual sexual violence and rough sex. 
> 
> Please remember that this story is a manifestation of sexual fantasy and our sexual desires are as complicated as any other divisive topic. For those who read and enjoy; no one controls your body but you. Stay empowered and indulgent, fellow deviants. 
> 
> TW: Depictions of depression and anxiety, unhealthy coping mechanisms, rough sex, consensual physical/sexual violence, and drug use.

**Before**

Ben Solo is a detective with a muddy history.

His work with the police force is confidential, which naturally means most of the precinct knows every detail. He is noteworthy for going undercover as hardened “ex-con” Kylo Ren for nearly ten years to infiltrate a criminal syndicate and take down John Snoke—and Solo didn’t come out unharmed.

Some detectives think he went too far, and he’s fallen prey to the underbelly that so many cops plunge into when they are undercover for such long periods of time. Some say he spent the last ten years high as a kite and angry as sin, and there is no place for him behind a badge anymore. Some say he should be on infinite desk duty for what he did, if not put on indefinite leave. Some even say he did what he was asked to do, and collateral damage is just that.

Some detectives say he’s unfit for duty and I would consider myself one of them.

He’s erratic. Unstable. Moody and hard to work with.

He is somehow both petulant _and_ aggressive. He seems to have forgotten how normal people interact with each other, so he doesn’t even try. He’s effortlessly dismissive. Arrogant doesn’t even begin to describe him. He doesn’t like working with others, and in my line of work, trust can ultimately be the difference between life and death.

 

* * *

 

**  
The Sundance Murders**

I glance up from my screen as Solo barges into the office, his trademark dark cloud swirling around him.

He doesn’t say hello to anyone. He doesn’t even look up. He heads directly into the Captain's office, the door slamming shut with a deafening blow. I can’t make out the words being spoken, but I can hear him immediately yell, followed by the sharp bite of Captain Amilyn Holdo yelling right back. I glance up at Finn who rolls his eyes and I laugh lightly into my tea.  

“I’d say someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed but that implies he has a good side to wake up on.” Detective Dameron walks up to us and raps his knuckles on the 70s wood desk with a shake of his head. Finn laughs and stands, swinging his coat around himself in a fluid motion.

“Rey, you want me to bring you back a coffee?” I shake my head.

“I’m good thanks.” I watch them leave, already laughing together and I crack my neck, submitting my report with an exaggerated press of the mouse.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. The drop down tiles have yellowed and browned with age. Mysterious water stains bloom in an almost-pattern above me. There are random holes from bored detectives throwing pencils and scattered bits of tape from birthdays, anniversaries, and retirement parties. I press away from my desk and walk towards the water cooler to give my eyes a break. My shift ended a few hours ago, but I stayed to finish my report. And also because I had nowhere else to be. That fact stings a bit, and I check my phone. No missed texts. No missed calls. The usual.

Not that I expected there to be any. Everyone I know is here. Or actually enjoying their time off from work. The guy I had been seeing ended things a few weeks ago.

_“I don’t think we want the same things.”_

I don’t think he ever really tried to know.

And maybe he was right, but it didn’t help the feelings of rejection and loneliness. I press my fingers into my chest, a familiar tightness beginning to spread. He would also never understand what I needed in bed. But he’s long gone now. So much for trying to do things the _right_ way.

“Johnson. My office.” I snap to the Captain’s voice and no-nonsense command.

I ditch my water cup and head into the room, eyes down. I nearly trip on myself when I enter and see that _he’s_ still in there.

“Maam?” I ask, and she motions to shut the door. A feeling of dread washes over me. I shut the door and turn slowly, sitting as far away from him in my seat as physics will allow.

“Johnson. The Lipstein case is closed, good work.”

“Thank you,” I say softly, my voice not quite loud enough for the room.

“I’m assigning you to another case,” she begins and I hear the second part of her sentence before it leaves her mouth, “with Solo.”

He swears under his breath and I whip my head in his direction. What does _he_ have to complain about?

“Maam,” I begin, trying to find the words, but nothing eloquent or polite emerges, “...why?” I finally get out with a brash huff of air. Holdo visibly stiffens.

“I didn’t realize my decisions were up for scrutiny.” Her deadpan response confirms she’s already had this conversation today.

“Of course not, Maam, I am just trying to understand -”

He cuts me off with an annoyed snarl, “Don’t worry, this isn’t about _you_ . It is to punish _me_ .” He answers, eyes never leaving Holdo. _Fucking prick._

“Solo.” Her voice snaps, and her eyes return to me.

“We have a lead on the sundance murders. With your _joint_ experience and expertise, I am putting my faith into _both_ of you to do your jobs, and keep the bullshit out of my office. Understood?”

Her tone doesn’t leave room for much, so I nod, taking the file she presses towards me and standing slowly.

“If you think you can saddle me with a babysitter, you’ve got another thing coming.” He stares at Holdo, and to her credit she sighs, more annoyed than offended.

“Maybe Johnson will have better luck with you than the last four detectives.” She stands, pointing at his chest, “If you can’t make this work, you’re off the fucking force, Solo. Last chance.” He bites back whatever he was going to say and takes off, swearing under his breath and slamming the door once more.

I turn to leave when Holdo’s voice calls out, much softer. “This isn’t punishment, Rey. There is a good detective underneath his...whatever his problem is,” she sighs and pinches her nose, “you aren’t his babysitter, but I do need to get him back on track. I thought about this for a long time and I haven’t chosen you frivolously.” Her eyes scan my face.

“I don’t know if I am the right person to help him,” I answer honestly. She nods.

“I knew him. Before. He wasn’t always this way, and I believe there is hope for him. Does that make me foolish?” She asks, a small smile appearing on her lips. I soften at her candor.

“No, it makes you compassionate,” I reply and glance down at the file, “if you haven’t given up, I won’t either.”

 

* * *

 

When I get home I cave and create another profile.  

I promised myself last time would be the _last_ time, but stress and lack of control is getting to me. I run my fingers through my hair, aggravated that even after all this time it seems so difficult to find what I’m looking for.

_Looking for someone 6’2 or up, must be strong, formal defence training a plus. Needs to be dominant in bed and enjoy being physically in control of your partner. I like the usual suspects: hitting, choking, biting, being restrained...but I am not a typical submissive. I am not into BDSM or sex toys, especially not into traditional dom/sub dynamics. I just want you. No roleplay or gadgets, everything you do to me I want you to do with your body. I need skin to skin; no props - just you._

I upload a few pictures - nothing of my face of course - and I fill out the rest of the profile as quickly as possible.

Each time I go through this process my profile gets more and more specific. Each time there is a barrage of men who will say _anything_ to meet, but have no interest in what I’m looking for. In fact, they like quite the opposite. Even the ones who seem to know exactly what I want to hear always come up short when we are face to face. Or think we can trade kink fantasies, but that’s just not how it works for me.

Even the process of having to think about it sends heat through my body, and makes me short of breath. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Visions of being pushed to my knees and _taken_ swim beneath my eyelids. I can almost feel the weight of the phantom man, dominating and rough and unrelenting.

There has to be someone out there that wants what I want.

All I can do is wait.  

 

* * *

 

Solo avoids me for nearly a week. A _week_. I refuse to go to Holdo, and I try to catch him as he comes in and as he goes, but he is slippery. Maybe all that time undercover gave him extra spider-senses.

However, he forgets, I’m a detective too. And a damn good one at that. By the sixth day, I stop trying to talk to him, and I make myself scarce. He can’t avoid me if he doesn’t know where I am. I ignore the building tension in my chest even though I can feel the weight of it in my limbs, slowing me down.

On the seventh day, I switch civilian cars with both Finn _and_ Poe when I finally catch a break and follow him as he darts around the city. I can’t tell if he’s on to me or not. When he enters a mostly deserted mall I hang back, my instincts buzzing. He exits nearly two hours later on foot.

I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.

I let my hair down and switch into my runners. I look as civilian as I can get as I follow him with dark sunglasses, hands in my pockets. He has to head home eventually.

I think he knows I’m following him. Or that _someone_ is following him. No one travels this way, this erratically, unless they are trying to lose someone. After a couple of hours touring the Boston streets he finally slips into an old apartment building and I make my move, entering quickly behind him.

As soon as I step into the building’s foyer I am pulled roughly to the side and lifted off my feet, a forearm pressing hard into my throat, the weight of a body keeping me off of my toes as I’m pressed into the wall.

Solo.

He knows it’s me, obviously, and when he doesn’t let up I reach for my gun which he thwarts by taking and pressing my wrist hard into the concrete wall behind me.

“You’re the worst fucking tail I’ve ever had in my life,” he spits, and I struggle to breathe. At my strangled breath he lets go of me instantly and steps back, as if only now recognizing how _stupid_ it was for him to do that.

“Well, I got you to talk to me, didn’t I?” I cough and whatever he thought I was going to say, it wasn’t that. He stares at me, stunned, and for the first time in a week I feel like I have the upper hand.

“I’ve had enough of your shit, Solo.” He steps towards me and I kick him hard, square in the chest and he hits the wall behind him with a thud. He coughs in surprise and holds his hands up.

“Alright,” he concedes, “I deserved that.” There’s something mischievous in his eyes and I see it as my duty to kill it completely.

“No, what you _deserve_ is for me to file a formal complaint for absconding your responsibilities as a detective and _my partner_ , and then another one for assaulting me -”

“I’m sorry,” he interjects quickly. “I should not have done that. I didn’t realize how rough I was being.” His face seems more serious and weathered than before. His hands lower and he rolls his shoulders back.

I feel my eyes narrow in distrust. “Bullshit.”

“I swear to you, it wasn’t my intention to hurt you.”

It _didn’t_ hurt _._ “What was your intention, then?”

He appears at a loss for words at my question and he breathes out, running his hands through his hair.

“To intimidate you,” he answers with a shake of his head. He sounds ashamed, which he absolutely should be.

We are not off to a good start.

I get it, in a sense. How many terrified kids did I witness try to scare and bully their way through the system? Except he’s not a kid, and I don’t know if that makes him more or less depressing. No one gets out unscathed from life, though. It’s tender when I suck in a breath of air and I feel my anxiety bubbling beneath the surface of my skin. His eyes search my face at the sight of my creased features.

“Is this even your apartment?” I ask, exhausted. His lip lifts slightly.

“No.”

I roll my eyes. “You’ve wasted enough of my time. Can we go somewhere and discuss the case, now?” I can hear in my voice that I’m not really asking. His shoulders drop, and he motions to the door with his arm.

“Fine. Lead the way."

 

* * *

 

When Finn finds out, he places an amicable arm around me. “Aw, Peanut. I didn’t know the Captain hated you.” His faux-sympathy breaks out into laughter at my grimace. Finn worked with Solo, once. He was undercover with Solo for less than a year before he requested desk duty. Some guys on the force gave him hell for it, but I think it’s admirable to know your limits.

“It’s fine,” I answer, not really lying.

When Poe finds out he lets out a long and low whistle, not saying anything at all, which almost seems worse.

The news pulses through the precinct, and although very few other people actually comment on it directly, I feel their eyes and hear my name more than ever before. I am starting to realize why Solo doesn’t stick around the common areas that often.

I head into one of the hallways with interrogation rooms—he gave up one of his hiding spots with more than a little resistance about a week ago. He’s often there, looking at files in very low lighting, staring through the one-way mirror at the brightly lit empty desk between sips of coffee.

I go to his favourite room and he quickly closes his case file as I enter. I bite my tongue. I get it, secrecy is kind of his _thing_ , no matter how unnecessary or annoying.

“I spoke to Donaldson today.” I start. He looks up briefly and I try to catch his eyes. He seems distracted, but I can’t place why.

“What did he have to say?” Solo asks, rolling his pen through his fingers.

“Confirmed our intel. He says that the man who was hanging around the parking lot that night is a regular at a bar called The Big Dipper, recognized him because he’s got a bit of a limp.” I close my notebook and stare at him. He stares back a moment too long and I let out a long suffering sigh.

“So will you come check out the bar with me?” I prompt, annoyed he is making me ask.

“You asking me on a date, Johnson?” His eyes dance, and his signature flat humour causes my face to flood with heat. I refuse to play games with him.

I lean in just enough to see each and every one of the beauty dots on his face. “I’ll meet you there at nine, Solo. And if I were asking you on a date, you’d fucking know it.”

 

* * *

 

To his credit, he shows up at nine on the dot. Not that he gets praise for doing the bare minimum. He looks the part, roughed up jeans, black t-shirt, leather jacket. His longish hair gives him instant casualness and it sets my teeth on edge.

He looks like he belongs here. I swallow a bit, knowing I don’t have the same ready-to-rock vibe that he does. My suspicions are immediately confirmed when he eyes me, his mouth twisting into a knowing smirk.

“Is this your idea of bike-bar attire, Johnson?” He asks in a hushed tone and slides into the beater I borrowed from impound.

“I don’t remember asking your opinion,” I say bitterly, and he turns my face towards him by my jaw with his massive hand, and I pull at his wrist with a curse.

“You look like you’re entering Miss Teen USA.” He scowls and rubs his thumb across my lips, smearing my pillow fight pink lipstick _just_ so.

He studies my face with a scowl before he runs his hands through my hair, ruffling it with more vigor than I deem necessary. It sends bolts of electricity through me, my eyes pressed closed to avoid getting a finger in my cornea. When he pulls back I stare at him in shock.

I can still feel the pressure of his thumb against my mouth and I can’t find a _single_ word.

“One last thing.” He crosses the car’s armrest and leans over me, hands near my feet. I freeze completely at the proximity and feel him pick at my nylons. It only takes a second to figure out he’s making holes and runs in the delicate fabric and I pull him back and push him into his seat, swearing at his nerve.

“I don’t need your help.” I flush and smooth out my black mini dress. It’s too short, hence the nylons, since it was gifted from a friend years ago. It’s faded, and I thought it would help me blend in, but now I feel insecure about the whole thing. I rearrange the rear-view mirror to look at myself - he’s smudged my lipstick and blown out my curls - it looks like I’ve been fucked by a wind machine.

“What exactly is the benefit of this?” I ask, motioning to my face and pressing some of the lipstick out of the corner of my lip.

“Well,” he begins, hiding a smirk, “I figured since you look like such a good girl, I could at least make it look more convincing that maybe you’re bad where it counts.” I want to punch the grin off his face. Straight. Off. His. Face. He has _no_ idea who he is talking to.

“What the fuck did you say to me?” I ask, hot, white fury blinding me for a second.

“Relax, Johnson, I didn’t mean it personally.” I shoot daggers at him.

“You don’t look like the type to be here - that’s a compliment, by the way - I just don’t want you to blow our cover with your sweet as pie, sunshine and rainbows aesthetic.” That last part was _not_ meant as a compliment, I can tell. He’s also dead wrong, which isn’t the least bit surprising.

After a beat he continues as if it wasn’t clear enough already, “You look like a narc.”

“Not sure why you think you know me, Solo,” I bristle, “because anyone who does would tell you my bite is far worse than my bark.” I decide to remove my sweater, and I step out of the vehicle with a huff.  

The cold air hits my shoulders and I cross my arms, waiting for him to join me. He does, slowly, and leans in far too close, arms bracing the vehicle on either side of me, pressing me back into the cold burn of the car window.

“So how do you want to play this, Johnson?” He whispers, and I shiver hard as I turn away from him.

“Just stay where I can see you,” I answer, annoyed, and try to push him out of the way. He moves next to me, and throws his arm around my shoulders.

“The only way someone like you would be in this bar is if you’re with someone like me.” He explains into my ear and his grip tightens. I don’t sense the same levity in his voice as before and there is something else in his voice that keeps my mouth shut. Resignation.

I don’t have time to figure out why as we head through the doors and are met with a wall of noise and the stench of beer. His grip around me is unnecessarily tight, so much so that I have to mold myself to his body (and his gait) to keep from tripping over him. He brings us to a small, rounded booth and presses me into the seat. I scoot over as he follows beside me, making sure he allows as little space between us as possible. He keeps his arm around me, which I find patronizing and audacious.

I turn to him, pressing upwards towards his ear. “Maybe this is how you do things undercover, but in the real world there are procedures. Appropriate workplace conduct. _Sexual harassment_ complaints.” He laughs and pulls me in closer, the scruff on his face brushes against my ear.

“In the real world, you’re in a biker bar, looking like little bo peep and you might be feisty, but you wouldn’t last a second alone.” I feel a familiar brush of anger at the sentiment that I am somehow _less than_.

“Not everything boils down to violence. There are ways to be convincing and _effective_ with words.” I snap, just in time for the waitress to take our orders. It occurs to me how hypocritical I am being, but he wouldn’t understand why anyways. I attempt to order a ginger ale and he interrupts to order me a gin and ginger, two beers for himself and four shots of whiskey.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, smiling to hide my rage.

“Why does anyone come to a bar, Johnson? Do you think it’s to work on their crosswords?” He releases me from his grip as the drinks arrive and I move to scoot over when his hand grips my upper thigh.

“I don’t like this place, and I would prefer if you stayed close.” He demands into my ear.

“That’s the funny thing about me being an autonomous being—I can do what I want,” I spit back but his grip doesn’t let up until I move back, firmly beside him.

“You know we have had the same training and education, right?” I snip again, affronted by his apparent misogyny.

“What was it that Holdo said? That we have different skill sets? Would be helpful if you let me use mine.” He’s downed most of his beer by the time I’ve taken a sip and I feel a wave of uncertainty as he pushes a shot in front of me.

“I don’t trust you, Solo. We haven’t discussed our tactic here, and this is completely outside of protocol.”

He pauses, finally listening to me, and buries his face into my neck. His hand braces the side of my face with less pressure than he did during Lipstickgate.

“Some guys at the bar have been staring since we walked in. I’m trying to figure out if they are suspicious of us, or just interested in you.” The heat of his breath in my ear makes me jump and as he pulls away a familiar heat blooms in my chest. I swallow it down with some of the gin and ginger, making sure I don’t look at the bar.

I look at him instead. He’s taking in the activity around us, and although it appears casual, I know it isn’t. I’m annoyed to be following his lead, but I will give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

“How do you know it isn’t _you_ they’re ogling over?” I ask, letting myself smile as he laughs.

“Feisty _and_ she thinks she’s funny,” he mumbles. I crack my neck and make a decision to speed things up.

“I am going to the bar to order food. If they have a problem with us, we will find out.”

“Johnson,” he warns, hand grabbing for me, but I slip away and pop out of the booth in a second flat. He glares at me and I roll my eyes.

I move up to the bar and sure enough, there are three men a few stools down who seem to take a keen interest in my actions. Huh. Maybe he was right. Well there is a first time for everything, I guess.

The bar is busy, and as I wait, one of the men leans over a bit and calls out to me.

“Hey girlie. Haven’t seen you around before.” He must be around forty—weathered but not unattractive.

“You must not have been looking hard enough,” I answer back with a smile. He laughs and whistles.

“Not just a looker! What’s that accent you got there? Sounds so sweet.”

I’m saved from answering by the bartender who finally comes over to me. I order as much food as I can remember being on the menu, pointing back to my table and watching Solo scowl so deeply at me that I can nearly see the steam shooting out of his ears. I stifle a laugh and turn to leave the bar when I come face to face with the weathered-but-handsome-forty-year-old.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks without preamble. I smile, my head falling to the side.

“I would, but I’m here with my boyfriend,” I answer with put-on apology. He _tsks_ at my answer and sends a glance in Solo’s direction as if confirming that yes, that oaf who has been too handsy with me since we arrived isn’t my platonic drinking buddy.

He sucks in a breath. “Well you come back if he doesn’t know what he’s got.” He says it with a wink, and I laugh after I turn back to our table, sliding in with calm expression.

“See? Not a threat. Just a misguided drunk who likes British accents. Can I do my job now?” I ask, immediately facing out to the crowd and and taking in the patrons, scanning for our mystery man. I feel him sour beside me, his arm stretching across the back of the booth—testing the waters of my irritation no doubt.

“You don’t know these people. He might not be cause for concern right now, but things can flip on a dime.” He finishes his beer and I notice all four shots are gone. I ignore the instinct to tell him just how well I know “these people.”

“Can you slow down, please?” I ask and he shrugs, already loose from the alcohol.

“I should just leave you here. If you wanted to get plastered you could do that alone.” I shake my head and push the empties towards the end of the table.

“It’s better with company,” he replies fast, motioning to the waitress for a refill.

“Not the point, Solo.”

“Maybe this is how I work, Johnson, you ever think about that?”

“Can’t imagine the Captain would accept that as an answer.” I throw back to him, but he remains nonplussed.

“Suspect is at your three o’clock,” he offers up in a breezy tone. I look over and sure enough, he’s there, blending into the walls as he watches the horse race and takes a sip of beer.

“Then I guess this night wasn’t for nothing after all.” As I speak, the waitress drops off a plate of nachos, mozzarella sticks, and a basket of hot wings.

“Did you order enough?” He asks, eyes wide.

“I also ordered chicken fingers and fries,” I answer with a smile, popping a mozzarella stick into my mouth.

“Unbelievable.” He shakes his head and leans back in his seat, eyes on me.

 

* * *

 

People at the precinct think it’s okay to come up to me and ask what I did to “chill Solo out.” I find it offensive and I don’t know why. Also, he isn't chill. At _all_. Anyone spending more than three seconds with him would know that.

Although, even I can admit the last few weeks have been less...antagonistic.

I know the moment I get to work that something is off with me. I feel a bit light headed—unsteady on my feet. I make it through most of the day until waves of nausea hit me.

I smile weakly at Finn who shoots me a worried glance.

“You alright?” He leans in and searches my face. I nod and get on my feet, uncertainty swirling in my chest.

 _Not at work._ I beg my body. _Not here._

“I’ll be right back.” I take off for the bathrooms only to find them occupied by a group of school kids touring the station. Naturally.

I make a beeline for the interrogation hallway and push into the first room I know isn’t scheduled for anything, a shaky breath exploding out of my lungs as I lean against the door.

“Johnson?”

His voice cuts through the rush of blood in my ears and I nearly fall over.

“Shit, I didn’t know you’d be in here.”

“I’m always in here,” he replies in confusion and I nod, waving him off because yes, he’s right, but not _now_. Suddenly I can feel every pulse of blood in my body, the weight of myself is crushing and my head spins in a million directions.

“What’s happening to you?” He asks, now standing. I feel the world get brighter, as if someone cranked up the brightness on a TV screen and I start to shiver from a cold blanket of air only I can feel. It’s happening, I’m too late.

I feel myself start to hyperventilate and I slide to floor, eyes squeezed shut because maybe if I can’t see him he can’t see me.

“Johnson,” he says my name again only this time it’s softer, almost too quiet, and I pull at the buttons of my shirt because I’m _suffocating_ and I feel him kneel down in front of me.

“Is this a panic attack?” He asks and as if on cue a string of tears slide down my face. I can feel myself shake in my attempts not to do this here, in front of him. I try to control my breathing but I know I must sound like a fish out of water. I can’t stop shaking, and I wrap my arms around myself while simultaneously pulling at my shirt so that I can breathe. My head is spinning.

“I can help,” he whispers, and undoes a couple of buttons before pulling me against him. I’m suddenly surrounded. By his warmth, his smell, his weight. I can’t see or think straight so I just shake in his arms. He probably thinks I’m insane now. I can only imagine what people would think... _Don’t tell anyone_ , I pray to nothing. _Don’t tell anyone, don’t tell anyone._

“I won’t.” His voice interrupts me and I wince, fear pulsing through me.

“This never happens,” I start, “I mean it rarely happens. I mean it rarely happens at _work_.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t need the Captain setting me up with the precinct shrink, it’s been this way my whole life.” I wince at how it comes out because what I _meant_ to say was that I have things under control. Totally and completely under control.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he replies from around me and I realize after a beat that he actually means it.

I’m breathing as if I just ran a marathon and I feel my fingers cramping from gripping his shirt so tightly. God only knows what someone would think if they walked in right now. I don’t know how much time passes before he shifts, and I groan, the realization of how embarrassing I’ve been finally setting in.

“I’m sorry.” I sniffle and his grip loosens a fraction, enough for me to shift out of his hold, although I instantly regret it. The air feels twice as cold on my own.

“I’ll be right back.” He squeezes my shoulder and in his absence I press myself into the wall, tugging on my shirt with shaking hands. 

When he returns he places a juice box, some cookies, and a box of tissue paper at my feet. Leftover snacks from the school tour, I imagine. He grabs some papers from the desk and sits next to me on the floor—close enough to touch, but far enough away that we don't. I can’t help the small smile from appearing on my lips as I reach for the snacks. Of course cookies aren’t the answer, but also, they kind of are.

He doesn’t say anything, just lets his long legs stretch out in front of him as he leans back and starts making notes. We stay like that, side by side on the floor. My occasional hitched breathing is not nearly as loud as it feels and eventually it subsides. It isn’t long before I can take a full breath without the painful constraint in my lungs.

I uncurl myself from the inhuman ball I had made myself into and lean my head against the concrete, exhausted. My skin is still buzzing and I wonder how long he plans to wait with me here.

The answer is two hours and nine minutes. That’s when he asks if he can drop me off on his way home. I think about saying no but I’m too worn down to fight him. My lips feel raw from biting them, my hair feels insane from running my hands through it, and I know I have mascara smudged around my eyes. My shirt is half undone, exposing my black sports bra and I feel the flush on my face from crying so hard for so long.

As I reach for the tissues he pulls his pen out of his mouth and motions to me in a dramatic fashion. “This. This would have been a great look for the biker bar.”

 

* * *

 

I worry that he will look at me differently after that day, but he doesn’t. If anything, he acts like it was nothing out of the ordinary and wasn’t worth a second thought. He doesn’t know the half of it, though.

I watch him a little closer after that.

Not because I don’t trust him, but because I’m scared I’ll start.

 

* * *

 

The following week we follow a lead that brings us to an industrial area of town, the looming concrete buildings and shipping containers providing a sufficiently unnerving backdrop to the task at hand.

Solo looks monstrous when he’s in his gear—I watch him strap on his bulletproof vest before attending to my own, and we go over logistics with the team. Solo doesn’t care to address them—he leaves that part to me. I prefer it,  because it keeps everything friendly and no one gets derailed by Solo’s attitude.

It is a small team acting as back up, so Solo and I can scope out the unit without too much fanfare.

As we approach the block, Solo parks and we head over on foot, the night air is cold and I adjust my earpiece. It’s true that 90% of police work is paperwork, so nights like tonight still spike my heart rate.

I follow his silent hand motions that indicate our direction when we enter the building, my gun strap unbuttoned and flashlight in hand. Solo crowbars the door with a muffled thud and we enter the space.

It appears empty, the dark towers of pallets filling the large warehouse. I click on my flashlight and take to the right, boxes and boxes stacked to the ceiling as I make my way to the back rooms. Solo is quiet and I can’t hear him after a few seconds. There are some office type rooms at the back, unlocked, and I make note of them before turning down another aisle between pallets.

I hear a noise from the hallway behind me and turn, pressing against one of the pallets and switching my flashlight off.

Without warning I feel a hand cover my mouth from behind and Solo’s voice is in my ear, “It’s me. Someone entered from the other side.” My heart is pounding in my chest as he releases me, but doesn’t move back. The man needs to learn about personal boundaries.

“Backup?” I whisper, and his mouth is at my ear.

“Not yet.”  

I purse my lips. We should be calling for backup. He forgets that his decisions affect me, too. I ignore my annoyance as he presses us both into the pallet. The footsteps get closer and I can hear two men—maybe three—talking as they walk towards us.

He tenses slightly at the voices. I can tell he’s about to move, and I go to reach for his arm but it falls out of my reach.

Suddenly the weight of him around me disappears and I hear his voice fill the room.

“Boston PD, hands up.” He’s rounded the corner behind them and I swear under my breath, pulling my gun up as I walk around in front, finger on the trigger.

 _Why_ wouldn’t he give me a heads up that he intended on making our presence known? I am cursing him as one of the men reaches for his belt, and I shoot instinctively, the clip landing in the man’s shoulder as he swears and loses his footing.

The sound is deafening.

The second man - there were only two -  shoots in my direction, but isn’t anywhere close to me, when Solo comes up behind him and knocks the gun from his hand, sending him to the floor with a painful thud. As Solo cuffs him, knee firmly in his back, I walk over to the bleeding suspect and radio in, cuffing him slowly before standing.

Solo’s eyes are on me. Deciphering. I feel a swell of nerves explode inside me and I fight to control my breathing. My ears are ringing from the gunshots and I shake my head at the scene in front of me as my thoughts catch up to my heartbeat. The sirens wail to life outside. I look away from Solo until the team floods in, the noise and chaos a thankful distraction as I head outside.

The medics will want their space, anyways.

“You’re more trigger happy than I expected.” I hear him follow me into the night air, his curious tone pulling me out of my thoughts.

“Do you have a question, Solo?” I ask, turning to face him. His bulking form fills my vision and I cross my arms, staring at him with as much willpower as I can muster. He can’t see my shaking hands yet, but soon I’ll have nowhere to hide.

“Just wasn’t expecting you to be the first to shoot,” he answers.

“I wasn’t expecting you to jump out in front of the suspects without so much as a warning.” I throw back and his eyebrow raises at the heat in my voice.

“I think we were more or less on the same page.” His tone is light, and my frown deepens. Is everything a joke to him? Even me?

“I may have saved you from a bullet, so I think the words you’re looking for are _thank you._ ”

He pauses, assessing me, and his shoulders fall slightly.

“Thank you.” He repeats back, and of course he manages to sound so genuine and sincere, I can’t argue any further. He’s such an impossible prick.

“I trust you,” he steps forward, “do you still not trust me?” He asks and his eyes narrow. I’m caught off guard by the vulnerability of the question. His vulnerability, not mine. After too long of a pause I clear my throat.

“I’m not sure.” My reply is hesitant, and his face lifts as if he expected worse.

“I’ll get there,” he assures me. Or maybe he is just assuring himself. He’s so confident that for a second I think I might agree, but I stop myself. Just because he’s not constantly a jerk to me doesn’t mean I’ll forget who he _is_.

When I don’t respond he changes topic. “I think that the one you _didn’t_ shoot will be processed and ready to talk in the next few hours.” He looks me over, nonplussed and expectant.

“You know, if you want to solve this case with me,” he finishes with a smirk and I roll my eyes. He really knows how to manipulate a situation. Or maybe his charms are getting the best of me. I sigh, feeling the tension leave my body and I nod slightly.

“Alright. I’m taking the lead in the interrogation room, though.” I turn to continue walking toward the undercover cruiser, his footsteps following behind me.

“I would expect nothing less,” he asserts, and I smile despite myself.

 

* * *

 

**Work hard, break hard.**

 

“Congratulations on closing the Sundance murders.” Holdo’s eyes are bouncing between us, tentative and cautious. When neither of us say anything she takes a clipped breath.

“I’m close to knocking on wood, but I think things are going well, yes?” Her tone makes it clear she isn’t looking for confirmation. My lips press into a line at the many, _many_ examples I have of things _not_ going well.

“I want to assign you two to another case.” She passes a folder to me, and I flip it open, but I am too distracted to think. I’m tired. My concentration wavers but I manage a focused nod in Holdo’s direction.

Solo seems to pick up on my disengagement and he carries the conversation, much to Holdo’s clear delight. I pass him the folder and he tries to catch my eyes.

She’s basically beaming by the time we stand to leave, and I can’t help but marvel at the man. He can really turn it on when he wants to, can’t he? His relaxed persona doesn’t follow him out of Holdo’s office, however.

“Johnson,” he calls out behind me, but I wave him off—I need to put some space between me and work for an afternoon.

“Rey, will you be at Donovan’s tonight?” Finn calls out across the office.

“Wouldn’t miss it!” I call out with a small smile. It fades as I walk out of view.

I don’t look back, but I can feel Solo’s stare as the elevator doors close behind me.

 

* * *

 

I slide out of my car with hesitation.

I don’t feel like being out tonight but I know how badly Finn wanted some down time. I adjust my purse strap and lock my door.

“You ignoring me, Johnson?” His deep voice cuts through the cool night air and I jump out of my skin.

“What are you doing here?” My rattled voice shakes as I start walking towards the old wooden door. “Donovan’s” is a bit run down, but I think it is charming. Finn and I have spent many nights laughing about nothing beside the flickering neon lights.

“Half the precinct is out celebrating _our_ closed case, you think that earns me an invitation?” He says it with a breezy tone but I could catch his bruised ego from the other side of the moon.

“You never come out.” I stop and look at him, and he pauses a step ahead, eyebrow raised.

“Well, I’m feeling social tonight.” There is something undercutting the temperament of his tone and I follow him as he opens the door.

“Ladies first.” His extended arm across the door stops me dead in my tracks.

“Age before beauty.” I insist and he shakes his head.

“Never in my life—” His grumbling is interrupted by Finn who stands abruptly at our entrance.

“Rey!” His voice fills the bar and I smile instinctively. Solo is right, about half the precinct is here. Finn’s eyes shift to Solo before he pulls me into a hug.

“Why did you bring him?” He whispers into my ear.

“I didn’t,” I mumble back and he laughs.

“I got you your favourite.” He slides a tall, bright blue drink with fruit and three umbrellas in my direction and I groan.

“It was _one_ time, Finn!”

“You knocked back five in a row, I am surprised you didn’t get diabetes on the spot.” I pull up a chair and notice, thankfully, that Solo has sauntered over to a couple of the detectives at the bar and I take a sip.

For the record, the drink is still delicious.

“Where’s Poe? I ask quietly. Finn’s eyes lower and he turns in towards me.

“Late. He’s finishing up at the office.” I nod and let the chatter of the table take over while I pull a few cherries off one of the tiny pink sword skewers.

It isn’t common knowledge that Finn and Poe are seeing each other. I glance over at Solo. His hair is disheveled. He looks slightly more put together than when we visited the biker bar. _Slightly_. He’s ordered a double of scotch and I make a face imagining the putrid taste. He is talking to Armitage Hux, the least likable person I’ve ever met, so it is hardly surprising they have common ground. I try to pull myself away but there is something about his jerky movements that catch my eye. He seems...shifty. If I didn't know any better…

“Earth to Rey.” Finn flicks me and I laugh, my train of thought pinned somewhere in my mind.

“Sorry,” I mumble, taking another large sip.

“Think you can beat me in game of pool?” He asks, already standing. I laugh.

“Probably not.”

“That’s the spirit, Peanut.” He pulls me in by the shoulders and we shuffle through the tables towards the back, Solo’s outline still burning behind my eyelids.

I do not beat Finn at pool. Not even close. It takes us nearly an hour to get through the game as I am so slow.

“You’re getting better.” He assures me, and I catch Poe enter from over Finn's head.

“Look who finally made it.” I nod in the door’s direction and Poe catches our wave with finger gun to the bar and I laugh as Finn shakes his head.

“I think he's had a rough day.” Finn rubs the blue powder chalk cube over his cue and we begin pulling the sunken balls out from under the table.

“He was working with Hux today, wasn’t he?” I ask, and we both turn in tandem to see Hux saunter over to Poe, the two of them clearly entering a tense exchange off the cuff.

“Yikes,” Finn whispers, coming to stand next to me and we watch the two of them begin to argue.

“Should we stop them?” Finn asks as some of the patrons begin to take notice. We can clearly hear their voices over the music and so can half the bar.

“Maybe.” I glance around. “They’re getting intense.” I follow as Finn heads over, skirting the tables and working my way around towards them. I can hear Hux more clearly now, cursing at Poe and standing too close for comfort. Poe steps back into Solo, and it knocks the glass out his hand with a resounding crash. Unlike the movies, the world doesn’t stop on a record scratch, but my breath catches when Solo whips around, darkness clouding his unfocused eyes.

“The _fuck_ , Dameron,” he slurs and Poe’s fist clenches, his attention switching to Solo.

“Think you’ve had enough?” Poe asks, and I step forward, the crease in Solo’s face making me anxious. Hux takes the opportunity to pull a cigarette out of his back pocket.

“You’re the last person who should be talking shit to me.” Solo motions for a refill to the bartender as Poe curses.

“Fuck you both,” Hux grumbles, pushing in between the two men, who don’t bother to break eye contact. Finn hasn’t said anything and his body shifts uncomfortably next to me.

“What the fuck is your problem, Solo?” Poe spits.

“I’ll give you three guesses.” Solo’s drawl pulls me out of the shadow.

“Poe? Maybe you should leave it,” I say, trying to step between them. Poe’s eyes dart to me, a look of betrayal on his face.

“Are you serious, Rey? You’re sticking up for this guy?” I feel my mouth slack slightly.

“That’s not what I am doing.” I shake my head, trying to explain.

“Don’t talk to her like that.” Solo helpfully chimes in, a smug look hardening over his features.

“You don’t get to tell me how to talk to my friends, who do you think you are, Solo?”

“I’m her _partner_ ,” Solo grinds out, and I can’t believe his overconfidence in the situation. Poe laughs, running his hands through his hair.

“Partner,” Poe huffs, “as if you know anything about that?”

“And you do?” Solo asks.

This time I swear I _do_ hear a phantom record scratch. We lost Paige nearly a year ago, and _of course_ Poe blames himself. It’s a dick move to throw it in his face, even for Solo.

“Hey—” I try to stop Solo from saying something he might regret when Poe interjects.

“You have something you want to say to me?” Poe steps towards Solo and I press myself between them.

“Please don’t.” This time I’m looking at Solo, his eyes finally meeting mine. He reeks of scotch, and he pauses, his eyes drifting back over towards Poe. After a beat I can see him concede, jaw clenching.

“Let’s go,” I say quietly, and his focus falters. He pulls some bills out of his wallet and places his due on the bar top.

“I didn’t think so, fucking prick,” Poe mutters, and Solo tenses in front of me. I place a hand on his elbow in warning.

“Please,” I ask Solo again, and his body relaxes a fraction—I take it as permission to pull on his arm in the direction of the door. He braces himself on the spot until I tug again, and in an instant we are moving in tandem, his normally steady weight teetering beside me. Behind us, I hear Poe shuffle towards Finn.

“And where the hell were _you_?”

I don’t hear his answer but I make a mental note to text Finn later. It’s cold outside and I pull up my Uber app with shaking hands.

“What’s your address?” I ask and he sways on his feet.

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” He replies with a tug on his lips. I purse my mouth into a line.

“Don’t get cute with me, Solo, you were an asshole in there.” His face darkens slightly but he has enough sense to keep his mouth shut.

“So what address am I entering?” I prompt him again as he takes my phone and enters in his information. I cross my arms and face away from him, goosebumps spreading down my limbs.

“You’re cold,” he slurs, shrugging off his jacket. The warmth of it hits my shoulders and I step away from him.

“You’re out of your mind,” I start, grabbing my phone, “and don’t think for a second that I can’t tell you’re on something.” His face pales, which I didn’t think was possible.

“I’m not.”

“You better not insult me by lying to me twice,” I mumble, pulling up the Uber app to see how many more minutes I need to stand under his jacket.

“For fucks sake, Solo. You’ve put my address in.” I sigh as the driver pulls up, annoyed beyond reason when he gets in the car.

“Are you coming or not?” He scoots over in the backseat and I follow him, tempted to cancel the trip but I have a 5 star rating and I am not going down because of Solo.

The ride to my house is silent. Solo’s head is tilted back on his seat, his arms and legs outstretched so there is no space free of him. I thank the driver when we pull up to my apartment and Solo exists before I can tell him to call himself a taxi from the sidewalk.

“What are you doing?” I ask with genuine concern as he heads for my apartment door. Maybe he’s finally lost it.

“Can’t go home, Johnson.” He presses his hands in his pockets and stares me down.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

I roll my eyes and pull out my keys.

“This is totally unprofessional,” I mutter, using the fob to open the front door. “Unprofessional and completely unnecessary.” I continue, and I glance back to see Solo’s drawn face and bloodshot eyes meet mine.

“I know,” he answers and I’m frustrated that it feels like an explanation. I wait until we are in my apartment before I turn and face him.

“What are you on? And don’t bullshit me.” He stares at me a moment before answering.

“Coke. Mostly.” He sniffs and I am filled with ice hot dread.

“How can you be so careless? In front of the entire precinct? How could I ever defend you—”

“I would never ask you to,” he answers quickly, shaking out his hands and running them over his face, through his hair. I just stare at him, unbelieving. 

“You have to get help.” I all but splutter, leaning against my hallway wall.

“This _is_ helping. I need a release.”

“Fuck off.” I spit before I can help it. “This is a selfish distraction and you know it.” I add, as he crouches to the floor. He doesn’t say anything, just presses his head back into the wall and stares at me as if thoroughly and completely exhausted. After an uncomfortable beat, his eyes narrow.

“Don’t think I can’t see you,” he grinds, voice low and connecting instantly to my senses.

“What do you think you see?” I ask without humour. 

“I think you’re just as damaged. I think you have a release too, I just haven’t totally worked it out. Yet.” He sounds passive and conversational. I feel heat lick at the sides of my face and then the inside of my rib cage.

“There’s nothing to figure out.” My voice sounds hollow and I shift, throat suddenly bone dry. “If you’re staying, I’ll get you a blanket.” I move away from him and grab what little leftover bedding I have from my closet, mind purposefully blank. When I get out to the living room he’s sprawled out on my couch, an arm crossed over his eyes. I throw the blankets on him with a huff, and trip over his legs, propelling myself into him with alarming force.

“Shit, sorry -”

“Are you trying to kill me?” He wheezes and I catch my balance on the sofa arm and lift myself off of him.

“Try to remember that you invited yourself over, and I’m doing you a favour.” I roll my shoulders and start walking to my bedroom. I feel amplified and chaotic beneath the exterior of my skin and I can't wait to put more space between me and the too observant Ben Solo.

“Sweet dreams, Johnson,” he mumbles and I curse him out before shutting my door with a resounding thud.

 

* * *

 

When I wake up, he’s gone.

There is also a note on my kitchen table. It’s tossed on my laptop, and I pick it up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

> _I think I found your release. You should really consider clearing your browsing history once in awhile._

My limbs surge to life, ripping open my laptop, my heart pumping into my throat. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_.

My fears are confirmed when I see about a couple dozen open tabs. Some of them my porn history, some of them the kink profiles, all of it screaming how incredibly disturbed my sexual preferences have become. Did he read my profile descriptions? The messages I sent? My whole body feels like it's vibrating apart.

He’s such an incredibly vindictive asshole.

Shaking, I exit the browsers and brace myself against the table, my vision blurring and my breath quickening.

_Asshole._

 

* * *

 

 

**Desk Duty and the Seven Day Itch**

I don’t speak to him for days after that.

It takes a while for me to even look at him, but then I remember that there’s nothing wrong with my sexual fantasies. Nothing illegal, really. Unlike _his_ vices. He tries to talk to me, tries to apologize. I ignore him, mostly, which is easy to do when you’re catching up on paperwork.

He’s using—more than before—and I can’t be the only one that notices. Or maybe I really am.

Out of fear, I haven’t met up with anyone since I found Solo’s note. I’m frustrated and scared, something I swore I wouldn’t feel ever again. The panic attacks have become more frequent, even with doubling my dose of Prozac. I can’t believe no one has noticed _me_. Maybe it is willful ignorance, but for a floor of detectives, no one seems to be any good at detecting much of anything.

 

* * *

 

Solo breaks into my apartment a week later. I open my door and nearly scream in the split second it takes for me to realize it’s _him_ on my sofa.

“I should shoot you dead,” I gasp, slamming the door behind me.

“You’d make a lot of people happy,” he grinds out, and I notice a fine white powder dusting my coffee table.

“Solo, what the _fuck_.” I walk over to him and try to catch his eyes. I swipe the powder of the table and rub it between my fingers.

“What is this?”

“Ketamine,” he mumbles, eyes closing.

“You have to go.” I shake his shoulder and it’s like trying to move a cement truck.

“Why wouldn’t you ask _me_ to help?” His slurred speech is punctuated by the lifelessness of his limbs.

“Help me with what?” I ask, weighing my options for how to get him out of my apartment since I can’t lift him.

“With your...release problem.” He manages to open his eyes and I feel my stomach bottom out as I avoid his glassy gaze.

“You better consider your next words very carefully, Solo,” the anger in my voice dying on my tongue, “I’d be happy to drop you off at Holdo’s house.”

He laughs, “You’d never.” He’s so arrogant.

“You can’t help me. I don’t want you to help me. I don’t want you to _think_ about helping me.”

“Well that ship’s sailed.” His lopsided grin burns through me and I stare at him. He’s built for it. I resist pulling his hand up to my own and reveling in the size of him, but I blink away the thought. When I don’t answer he continues.

“I can’t believe you’d put yourself in danger like that, when you have someone you trust -”

“I _don’t_ trust you,” I interject quickly and he tries to sit up. It looks like he has an elephant on his chest.

“You do, otherwise you would have ratted me out by now.”

“Who says I won’t?” He leans back, his head rolling on the cushion. “Solo. Get out of my apartment.”

“Give me a shot at it.” He rebounds, pulling at my arms to bring me towards him. His grip is strong but he barely pulls me a few inches forward.

“Oh yeah? What is it you think you are going to do to me right now? You can’t even keep your _head_ up.”

“Give me an hour.” He pulls at me again and this time I step forward, my knees bumping into the couch.

“I am good at following directions.” He continues, his pull increasing until I am arched over him, my body working overtime to avoid touching him and to keep myself upright.

“I read your profiles, I know what you want,” he breathes, and my heart begins to pound, “how many more times are you willing to go unsatisfied?” He asks, and his constant pull finally brings me onto his lap, his arms locking around me. His satisfied and hazy grin is almost endearing. This feels like it doesn’t count because he is so out of his mind, and I tell myself he won’t remember in a few hours.

“I doubt, very sincerely, that you are in _any_ position to please me.” My voice is wavering but clear, and he shifts beneath me, his hardening length grinding up into my core and he grabs my hips tight enough to bruise. I bite back _any_ sound of pleasure that thought of escaping my lips.

“Well that’s just not true, is it?” He asks, meeting my eyes and running a hand up my chest and coming to a feather light hold around my neck. His thumb traces the hollow of my throat and I swallow, suddenly blooming with warmth.

“I check every box on your list.” He asserts, the pressure around my neck tightens for just a fraction of a second.

“I’m tall,” he starts, tightening further, “I’m much, much stronger than you,” I start to feel the familiar lightheadedness wash over me, “I know how to fight. I’m not into toys or typical BDSM.” And with that, the closure of his hand around my throat seals and I instinctively pull at his wrist as he squeezes _just_ so.

“You know what part of your profile I liked best, Johnson?” He asks, knowing I can’t answer. I feel my body react, the helplessness flooding my veins with delight and heat. The fact that he’s able to do it with one hand isn’t lost on me. I feel a rush between my legs and I close my eyes as he pulls me towards his face.

“I like what you said about being skin to skin, my body dominating yours; ‘ _no props, just you_.’” And with that he releases my throat and I gasp, already missing the pressure. I physically stop myself from grinding into him, desperate for friction. Instead, I jump off of him and back up, shaking and stifling a moan. God, that felt good. Really good.

“We can’t,” I croak slightly, my legs threatening to give out beneath me.

“I just did.”

“Solo,” I start, rubbing my neck slightly, “we work together. You’re my partner. You’re...not well.” I finish, gesturing weakly to the coffee table.

“Neither are you,” he starts, “is it so crazy to think we could help each other?”

“You’re high.” I finally get the words out of my mouth and grab my purse. “You found your way in, you can find your way out.” I can’t look him in the eyes as I make a beeline for my front door. Whatever his answer, it’s lost in the slam of the door behind me and my laboured breathing echoing down the hallway.

 

As a precaution, I rent a hotel room and stay there for the night.

 _“No props, just you.”_ His voice quoting my own profile back to me rings in my ears until I can’t take it a second longer.

I try not to think about him as I look up compilations of choking scenes and touch myself raw thinking about how undeniably _satisfying_ it felt to have his hand around my neck.

After an hour of frustration without release I curl up in the hotel bed and swear around a string of tears.

He really _is_ an asshole.

 

* * *

 

“Stop avoiding me.” Solo’s voice whispers into my ear and I turn to face him, taking a step back. He stays rooted in place.

“I’m not.” I lie through my teeth.

“I’ll back off, if you want me to.” The offer seems sincere, but he looks displeased about it.

“Is that a promise?” I ask, walking away from the desks and sensitive ears.

“More of a threat, really.” He saunters behind me until I reach his unused interrogation room.

“Solo, you need to snap out of it,” I whisper as the door closes behind us. He stays a couple feet away.

“I know you’ve thought about it.” His voice coats my veins with uncertainty.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I can’t stop thinking about it.” My cheeks flush and I pick at invisible strings on my shirt.

“Listen, Solo, you’ve made your point. I have something on you, you have something on me. Can we go back to being a mediocre team and focus on our jobs?” He pauses, head tilting.

“I don’t see why it couldn’t be both.”  

“Come off it. It is a bad idea—with no happy ending—and you know that.”

“I don't know that. And I’m exactly your type,” he says, and I roll my eyes at him.

“Solo, you’re tall and fit and have great hair—you’re _everyone’s_ type.” He huffs, his face flooding with colour. I am more than annoyed he’s taking the compliment instead of hearing my dismissal.

“Listen, I have thought a lot about the logistics—”

“I bet you have.” I interrupt, and he steps forward, jaw flexing.  

“God, you’ve got a mouth on you. I’d love to teach you some manners.” His face darkens and I wish it didn’t, but it makes me feel dizzy.

“You are getting out of hand, Solo.”

“You haven’t even let me get started,” he warns. I shake my head, unbelieving.

“233 Marlborough Street. That’s my address. I’ll be home tonight.” He stares at me and I take as long as I can before the inevitable agreement leaves my lips.

“Not if you’re high.” I warn, and he considers my condition.

“Fine.” With that, he turns and heads out of the room. I stare at the closed door for a solid minute before letting out a shaky breath I had been holding.

Did he say 233 or 223?

 

* * *

 

Of course I show up. I am too curious not to. My Uber pulls over, and I fight the swell of envy that burns in my chest. _Of course_ this is where he lives. I knew from the area it would be nice, but it is _really_ nice and I am offended he crashed on my couch when this was his alternative.

As the car pulls away, I regret my decision to come quite immensely. The overwhelming uncertainty hits me and I wish I wore something else. This is even more embarrassing than the biker bar fiasco. I put on what I normally wear—a small sundress, no bra, and thin lace underwear. Now I think it seems desperate and ridiculous.

My body propels me forward, as if possessed, and I am slowly ascending the steps towards his front door. It isn’t too late to turn around. It isn’t too late to salvage this situation.I pause in front of his doorway, studying the doorbell. I’m not sure how long I stand there before the door swings open and Solo fills my vision.

“Were you planning on hanging out here for much longer?” He asks, his self-satisfied smirk is nearly enough to send me running, but he steps aside and I step in, a pit of nerves forming in my stomach as the door closes behind me.

“You need to relax, Johnson. I’m not going to fuck you tonight.” The brash and inelegant sentence pulls my mouth open. He walks down the hall and I follow, apprehensive and uncertain.

“First of all, I didn’t -”

“I _am_ going to make you come though.” He adds in a nonchalant tone as he pours wine into a stemless glass and places it on the counter in front of me.

“Alright, listen to me, Solo—”

“No, Johnson, you listen to me,” his voice is loud in the marble tiled kitchen, “I’m done playing nice—”

“When were you _nice?_ ” I ask, and I see the last shred of his composure splinter.

He shakes his head in frustration and a small smile pulls on his lip. It feels sinister.

“I’m beginning to think you don’t want it as rough as you claim to.” That wipes the smile off of my face. I clear my throat and try to articulate the messed up, inconvenient, and impossible reality.

“This would be a pretty elaborate lie,” I start, and when he stares back, waiting for more, “it’s...the only way I can get off.” I glance at his door, because this can’t get any more humiliating. It makes my legs shake. “I should go.” My voice is quiet and he holds his hand up.

“Wait.” He comes around the island and stands in front of me.

“What’s your safe word?” I catch a whiff of his cologne—the masculine scent swirling with his natural _maleness_ and I feel myself throb.

“I don’t need one,” I answer honestly, and he laughs in my face.

“You absolutely do. Come up with one.” As he pushes up against me, I press my hands against his chest to push him back, but his hands circle around my wrists with a tight grip and I feel it in my toes.

“Your safe word. Last call.”

“Pineapple, then. You’ll never make me say it, though.” A huff of air brushes past my ear as he runs his hands into my hair and tugs my head back with more force than I was expecting.

“Fuck,” I gasp, struggling to stay upright.

“Not tonight, remember?” His voice is dark and I stifle a moan. God, he’s so sure of himself.  “Get on your knees.” My stomach lurches, and I swear I feel a wave of vertigo as I let him lower me to the floor, his hand painfully twisted in my hair. His free hand pulls at his belt and the sound sends a shiver through my body.

I hear the sound of his hand hitting my face before I feel it, and the sound of pleasure that escapes me is almost shameful.

“From this point forward, if you want me to stop, use your safe word.” I nod as much as I can with my neck craned back in his hand, and he slaps me again, harder and more controlled.

“Out loud.”

“Yes, okay. I understand.” The familiar feeling of fear begins to surge to life within me and it's hard not to shift under his gaze. It feels strange. I trust him. I would never admit it to him but I do. I _must_ , to have convinced myself to come here tonight.

The next slap stings deliciously. “Good girl. Now get up.” I feel like a live wire, and I struggle to pull enough air into my lungs to curse as he pulls me up to my toes from the base of my hairline. This is the part that’s exhilarating. Someone else taking control and knowing I can’t do anything to stop it. I brace myself against him, eyes closed, and I feel him rest his forehead against mine. His skin is warm and the closeness feels alien to me.

For a moment, I allow my body to pulse against him, my breathing erratic and catching. I’m annoyed that he was right—right that he is the living embodiment of what I was searching for. He’s imposing. Aggressive. Unpredictable. The dismissiveness, the arrogance—it is the cocktail of a dangerous and erratic person and it fucking _works_ for me. Too often the men I meet swing too hard in either direction. Too unstable or too weak to follow through, no matter how big a game they talk. It makes my chest ache at the thought of him applying some of that famous Solo temper on me and a wave of pleasure rolls through my core. What is my _plan_ , here? What is his?

He stays firm against me, locking me in place until I feel my breathing slow. His teeth nip at my jaw, a hiss of pain shoots between my teeth and I feel him smile, face against mine. This isn’t normally how I do things. He’s too close and I can’t see what he’s doing. It’s on purpose, I am sure. It lights a panic through me at the thought that maybe he's more experienced at this than I am.  

He drops his mouth to my ear, drawing his teeth down the sensitive skin until he bites, hard, and I pull away from him with a gasp. His hand grabs my jaw, tight enough to hurt as he bites lower, harder, and I’m backed up hard against the kitchen island. His body is flush against mine and I swear I feel every muscle, every twitch—he _is_ strong. I can tell he isn’t putting his full weight behind his movements and I feel a wave of anticipation and fear.

_Finally._

I try to push him back, to test his give. He doesn’t budge and his hand slaps the side of my face so hard and so fast I nearly lose balance before he reclaims his grip around my jaw.

“I know you like to be a brat, but you should know I won’t let up.”

His voice shoots straight between my legs and I press back against the counter to create some distance—I need to see his face—but  he slaps me harder, and I gasp despite myself.

My blood is rushing through me at lightning speed and I feel myself start to vibrate as his mouth follows an invisible trail down my neck, the pain of his teeth in my skin makes me wince and I push away from him without thinking. The next strike of his hand across my face is harder, and I see stars. Shit, that felt good. I bite my lip as tears prick behind my eyelids and his mouth is back near my ear, biting over and over as he runs a hand up my thigh, pressing the flimsy cotton dress up with him as he palms my breast with a painful squeeze.

“Spread your legs,” he commands, and I try to pull back enough to look at him, but he’s so _close_.

“Solo—” His hand grips my jaw with more pressure than before, his mouth hovering near my own.

“I’ll do it for you, then.” His hand comes between my legs and he hauls me up on to the island with a grunt, stepping between my legs and pulling them apart with a rough tug. Without much warning, his lips seal over my own, the heat of them an unexpected reprieve from his hand. It catches me off guard and I feel myself melt into the pressure of his mouth before a noise of protest emerges in my chest and I press my hands against his chest. I break away for a second to stop him.

“I don’t normally kiss...”

“You do now.” He tugs on my chin, opening my mouth for him and he overwhelms me instantly. Of _course_ he’s a good kisser. His mouth feels luxurious and frightening. For a split second, I worry maybe I bit off more than I can chew with him, but the worry is replaced by heat, _so much heat_ , as his teeth tug on my lower lip, his hands pulling my hair and surrounding my throat with exploratory pressure. I’m not stupid enough to pretend it doesn’t feel absolutely _right_ that his mouth is on mine, and when I tentatively return his kiss with more pressure he groans, the tightness around my neck increasing enough to pull a strangled sound from deep within my throat. This is already too intimate, but a part of me knew it would be and I came here anyways.

Maybe that _does_ make me stupid. My limbs are shaking already—normally something that takes a lot longer and I know my body is entering panic mode. My adrenaline is peaking and he takes his time running his fingers over my soaked underwear until I whine against his lips.

“Are you always this responsive, or is it just for me?” He asks in my ear and there isn’t enough air in my lungs to answer him. He shifts my underwear to the side and runs his thumb over my folds, pressing harder into the sensitive bundle of nerves that causes a jolt to shoot through me, and he swears, pulling at my underwear until it hangs around my thighs.

“Answer me,” He groans into my ear and I pull at his hand, desperate for air. He releases me, and I fall back onto the counter top with a cry, groaning as he applies more pressure between my legs. My eyelashes are wet and it's hard to keep my eyes open. Instinctively, I block his hand from my face when it comes next, and he pins my arm to the counter top, his teeth on my jaw.

“I said, is it _me_ , or do you get this wet for anyone who roughs you up?” The heat of humiliation rolls through me and my voice is barely above a whisper when I answer.

“It’s you.”

The release that follows my admission is euphoric. I answered without thinking, but I can feel his ego balloon, his grip around my neck tightening and pushing me into the expensive marble as he presses a finger into me. It’s sensory overload. I can hear myself gasp as he moves his finger slowly inside me, his thumb rocking back and forth over my clit and I feel myself fluttering around him. This is happening too fast. His free hand slaps the exposed skin of my ass that has been hanging off the counter and it _hurts_. He hits me again, harder, and I feel my eyes roll back in my head.

I try to tell him to slow down, but I don’t think I even make a sound. I can’t allow myself to come this fast, it is too embarrassing and he doesn’t deserve that kind of reassurance yet.

“You can keep fighting me,” his voice blurs through my brain as he slows my blood flow through his hold on my neck and I feel myself losing consciousness, “but I’m not going anywhere.” The pressure between my legs crests, and I jerk around him, coming against his hand and arching up into him. The wave of heat and pleasure pulses at his fingertip until I am in utter blackness.

 

 

When I come to, I’m being carried, and I jolt a bit in his arms, clearing my throat.

“I’m fine,” I croak and he laughs a little, heading up his stairs.

“I know you are,” he assures, and I feel my heart rate spike again. Where are we going? What happened after I passed out? I squirm a bit and his hold tightens ever so slightly. My body is still vibrating—the dual spike of pain and pleasure sending all of my neurons into overdrive.

“Relax, I just want to take a bit of inventory, here.” He explains, lowering my feet to the floor. I touch the cold tile and realize we are in his bathroom. I sway on my feet and he loops an arm under mine and pulls me against him as he turns on the faucet to his soaker tub. It’s freezing in here. I start to shiver and he rubs my arms for a minute, staring at me, a vaguely concerned expression on his face as he looks me over.  

I feel a bit foggy, and coming down from the excitement of it all has me feeling...sore. He tugs on my dress until it comes over my arms. I think my underwear is still downstairs in the kitchen. I watch him pour some Epsom salts into the tub and he presses me lightly towards the edge.

“Can you get in?” He asks, and I go to snap that _of course I can get in_ , when suddenly I don’t know if I can. I realize I have been gripping his arm since disrobing, and I abruptly remove myself, gripping the tub’s edge and slowly stepping into the warm and glorious water. As I do, he finishes taking off his pants, and pulls his shirt over his head. He’s still hard, and I feel a prick of self-doubt that I wasn’t able to get him off.

He steps into the tub and pulls me slightly so that I follow him into a seated position, his legs around me. Before I can protest, he pulls me back against his chest and holds me there. This isn’t really the vulnerable situation I wanted to be in when I came here tonight. The water stings in a few places and I wince slightly against him as he presses us both forward to turn off the tap. Despite the surrounding hot water I can’t stop shaking.

“I think,” he begins softly, “that I will go slower next time.” I nod slightly as a rush of tears flood my eyes. This after-period is normally something I experience alone, and I don’t know how to act. Or what to say. The cathartic relief of crying is probably troubling if you do it in front of another person.

“I liked it,” I whisper, trying to let him know it was… exactly what I wanted.

“I know,” he whispers back, and wraps his arms around me so I feel like I’m in a human vice.

“I don’t normally do baths.” I add, because I don’t know how to handle the elevating uncertainty inside me.

“I am beginning to understand there are a number of things you don’t normally do,” his voice is soft in my ear, “but this is necessary for me.”

Whatever my train of thought was, it stops dead because I don’t fully understand what he means.

“What do you _normally_ request for aftercare, then?” He asks quietly when I remain silent. I feel myself blank. Aftercare—the thing a dominant person is supposed to do afterwards to make sure you aren’t left in a careening mess of emotions and distress. I _normally_ opt out of that.

“I—I don’t. Request anything,” I answer honestly, and his grip tightens. He noses the hair near my ear and I feel his heartbeat against my back.

“That’s very dangerous, Johnson,” he chastises, and I swear I hear an echo of pity behind his words. I laugh a bit.

“You choked me unconscious, and you think me not having a _bath_ with you is what’s dangerous?” He lets out a breath, swearing a little as he shifts behind me, keeping his arms tightly wrapped over me, his hands pressing over my own.

“This...is the part where I let you know _I’ve got you_ ,” he replies as if it is the most natural thing in the world. My mind races a mile a minute to try and reply, but I come up empty. When I don’t say anything, he kisses my temple with a gentleness I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of.

His voice is low and curious, “How do you enjoy the satisfaction of being held over the edge if you never get pulled back to safety?”

 

* * *

 

**The Last First**

 

_“I’ve got you.”_

I wake with a start, and jump out of bed an hour before my alarm. I groan as I look in the mirror—my neck is bruised from his biting—I need to remind him to ease up on visible places. Dressing reveals some tender areas, and I am grateful for the Epsom salt bath—it probably took the bite out of it. For a second, I’m nervous to see him at work but he’s probably better at compartmentalizing than I am, and I’m pretty good. I give myself a once-over in the mirror and think I’ve done a pretty good job covering up the bruising with makeup so of course Finn notices right away.

“What happened to your neck?” He asks as he refills his coffee. We are alone in the break room but I shoot him a dirty look as I top my mug off with hot water.

“Just an over-excited make out session.” I lie, and Finn sends me a side-eye.

“I could pull the guy’s dental records with those teeth marks, Rey.” I bring some of my hair forward and smirk at his faux-judgement.

“Don’t kink-shame me, Finn.”

He laughs and pats me on the back. “Home-girl's a freak, that’s okay.” He shakes his head and continues, “Poe likes to have sex in church parking lots. Can’t cover _that_ up with makeup.”

 

* * *

 

He’s normal all week.

Too normal.

It takes three days for me to blow up in my mind every detail of that night and wonder if I messed up. He didn’t get off—maybe he didn’t like it? Is he just going back to how things were? I feel exposed and horrified, despite the instinct in my gut that says it’s going to be okay.

I stare at my computer, leg bouncing in a neurotic fit of nerves. Finn looks over and his brow quirks.

“You alright there, Peanut?” I stop moving and try to refocus on the task at hand. What was I doing?

“Yeah, just thinking,” I answer after a beat.

“Don’t think too hard.” He stands and grabs his coffee mug. I feel my phone vibrate in my desk and pull it out in less than a second.

> _Come over tonight?_

I feel a rush of relief, and I am glad Finn isn’t here to see the stupid smile on my face as I let out a breath and toss my phone back into my desk.

I force myself to wait an hour and twelve minutes before I text him back.

> _Sure._

“Johnson. Have a minute?” I look up and Holdo is smiling down at me.

“Of course.” She motions to her office and I follow behind. It always feels like I’m being called into the principal’s office. I still have a swell of adrenaline from his text, so the combination has me buzzing. I close the door with a soft click.

“So?” She asks with a smile. “Things are going well?” It doesn’t take me long to realizing she means with _Solo_.

“Oh. Yes. I think so, anyways.”

“I’d say. I have to tell you—I didn’t expect him to last this long.” I nod quickly because I am not sure what to say.

“I was worried about him.” She answers her own question. “But he seems to be improving.”

I bite my tongue. Exactly how much shit am I willing to get into for covering for Solo’s drug habit? If I was going to say anything, it would have been a long time ago.

“I think so, too,” I reply in agreement.

“Is he supporting you as a partner?” She asks, suddenly taking on a serious tone.

All I can picture is his arms around me, the warm water of the bath not quite as soothing as his heart beat in my ear. _“I’ve got you."_

“Very much so.”

“So you’re comfortable continuing on as his partner?” Her eyes hold a note of surprise.

“Yes,” I answer too quickly, “if that makes the most sense for you.” Holdo nods and doesn’t hide her relief.

“It does. And I think the whole precinct would agree.” I smile in response, and she shakes her head in awe.

“You two make a good team—do you think I can take credit for that?” She laughs at her own joke and I force my smile to remain in place.

“Credit or responsibility?” I joke back, and she shakes her head.

“Take the compliment, Johnson.”

 

* * *

 

This time I manage to knock on his door before he swings it open. His pitch-black outline sets my nerves on fire.

“What took you so long.” He isn’t actually asking as he pulls me into his foyer, pressing me tightly against the closing door, his face leaning into my own.

He locks the door around me and runs his fingers through my hair, breathing in the air around me. It’s a gentle action, followed by the firm pressure of his mouth on my own, flooding my veins with a spiraling warmth. The scruff on his face tickles my skin and I brace myself for…something. But he keeps the luxuriously slow pace, his mouth slanting over mine even as I break away for breath. The solid mass of his body is a constant but unrepressive weight against me, and I shift to feel him.

He never pulls away, never gives me the space to see him, and it continues to push my comfort zone out the window. The pressure of his hands through my hair and around my face is steady and firm but not aggressive.No where _close_ to aggressive. I tug on his shirt, not sure what I might be communicating, and he laughs, smiling against my mouth.

“What’s the matter?” His cool demeanor making me itchy with want.

“Why are you being so... _gentle?_ ” I ask, trying to pull back enough to see him, and he lets me. He leans far back enough that I can take him in the way I want to.

“I was curious how long you’d last before saying something,” he explains, “which was longer than I expected.” I feel my eyes narrow on him. His pupils are blown out and there’s the slightest dusting of white in his nose. I shake my head in disbelief.  

“I told you I won’t do this if you’re high.” I press on his chest and he pushes back, frowning.

“That doesn’t work for me,” he answers, resisting my efforts to push him away.

“Then _this_ doesn’t work for me.” I shoot back, now actively pushing him backwards. He doesn’t really move. He runs his hands down my arms, effectively stopping me.

“I feel like you aren’t recognizing how hypocritical you’re being,” he says, and he ducks to meet my eyes, “am I not allowed to let go the way you allow yourself to let go?”

“I’m not trying to be your gatekeeper,” I reply, and shake my head to look away from him, “I just don’t know where the line is.”

“Why don’t you let _me_ decide where the line is, then?” He answers, stepping into me with more force than before, his hand pressing into my hair without gentleness. It’s an alluring suggestion. Truthfully, I can’t say no. I’m already five steps ahead of him and practically _swooning_ at the thought of repeating last time’s success. It doesn’t mean I have to make it easy on him. Shrugging, I decide to test his boundaries a bit.

“No,” I answer, pushing against chest with more force and he stumbles back, clearly not expecting it. His surprised expression evaluates me, and I stare back, unmoving and hoping he can take the hint.

He does.

His hand is fast—he grabs me by the hair and pulls me up. I fight on my tiptoes as he slams me back into the door with a thud.

“What did you say to me?” He asks, mouth at my jaw. I push back on the door as leverage.

“I said no.” I lift my legs to kick at his thighs and his arm grabs my ankle like a vice, forcing my leg to the side as he grips my jaw, his eyes dancing over my face.

“I’m not sure it’s in your best interest to test me,” he mouths at my lips, “but you can try.” His hand shifts between us and he pulls at my underwear with a rough jerk, pressing his fingers lightly against me before flipping me around and pressing my face hard into his door, knocking my legs apart with the kick of his foot.

I sniff slightly, “You’re not that strong.”

He answers by pulling my dress around my hips and slapping the exposed skin of my ass with a deafening smack. I wince and try to quiet my gasp for air.  

“Sorry, what did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I said,” my voice cracks slightly, “you’re not that strong.” I barely get the last syllable out before the next strike sends my hips into the door and I can’t help the small yelp from echoing the sound of his hand on my skin.

“That’s weird.” He moves behind me, and I feel his arm loop around my neck, pulling me back and off my feet. It’s an instant cut-off of blood and oxygen. I pull at his arm a bit, but he continues to walk us backward until he hits the stairs.

“I think I’m doing alright.” He teases, and I elbow him in the ribs hard enough for me to twist out of his hold, my skin is buzzing as I suck desperate pulls of air.

“You could do better.” I hear how breathless my reply is and I don’t care. His eyes darken. This time when his hand moves across my face I’m ready, but it’s hard enough to sting and my eyes fill with tears instantly. It alights my skin with heat and fear and the combination makes my body shake. I don’t have time to react before he’s pulling me roughly by the hair up his stairs and I struggle to keep up, swearing as my legs hit the steps at awful angles. That’s going to bruise. Good.

When we reach the landing, he pushes me onto the floor, my back hitting the hardwood with a thud. His foot comes down hard on my upper thigh and as he presses down I swear beneath him.

“Stay down.” I ignore him and try to sit up, where I’m promptly met with a backhand which fucking _burns_ and I could scream from the satisfaction of it.

“I said, stay _down_.” He spits and begins to unbuckle his belt. I can’t get my eyes open enough to see, and I push at his leg to get off of me, the pressure becoming unbearable. He presses down harder and I gasp, head hitting the floor with a wince.

“Think you can handle some simple instructions?” He asks and I hear him pulling the belt out from around his pants.

“Yes,” I answer, and my throat is wet with tears. I feel myself shaking beneath him.

“Turn over,” he snaps, releasing my thigh with a push of his foot and I cry out, my body instinctively curling in.

He flips me over by the hips, my limbs crashing into the floor below me. It feels like I’m balancing on a telephone wire I'm so off balance. My body shakes with adrenaline as his hand connects with my ass. The deafening sound of blood pulses in my ears and I can’t stop the way my breath catches around my cry of pain.

“Start moving.” He kicks at me with his foot and I fall forwards, my eyes too blurry to see properly.

“Where do you want me to go?” I try to sit up when the striking hot pain of his belt comes down across my back. _Fuck._ The ice-hot burn blooms over my skin and I struggle to catch my breath. Somehow he makes it feel like an extension of himself, and I bask in the sensation of submission. The warmth radiates from my back and flows out to my fingertips as I shiver.

“Use your instincts,” he answers, voice low. Staying on my hands and knees, I try to blink away enough tears to see clearly. Right or left. Those are my options. Shaking uncontrollably, I move to the right, crawling tentatively on the hardwood beneath me.

This time, the belt hits the back of my legs and I tense, swearing at the sensation.

“Try again, sweetheart” His voice tugs at the indescribable _want_ between my legs and I let the feeling roll over me. The higher-functioning part of my brain goes offline and all I feel is  _yes_.

Turning in the other direction, he follows me down the hallway, the sound of his belt swinging as he walks. I can’t explain _why_ , but every neuron in my body is singing with delight. When I finally come to the end of the hallway, I pause, considering the doors to either side of me.

As if to prompt a decision out of me, I hear him pull back and I wince against the contact of leather on my skin. The strike hits across my ass and the exposed sensitive flesh of my core—my guttural scream fills every corner of the hallway and it hovers over the rush of blood in my head and the desperate pull of air in my lungs. I grip at nothing on the hardwood floor and grit my teeth.

“Hurry up,” he warns and I I turn left, bracing myself for another hit that _doesn’t_ land on my vibrating skin. I can’t stop the relieved breath of air I take, and he notices.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he continues, “I’m just warming you up.” I feel my stomach flip and my core tighten. _Please_. Please don’t stop.

The room is carpeted, much to my relief, and I crawl forward. My uneven breathing fills my ears. When I reach the bed, I cautiously place a hand forward, feeling the soft texture beneath my fingertips as they tremble. The separation of fear and excitement blurs to nothing. I hear him throw his belt into a corner of the room and I jump at the sound. He’s worked me up into a lather of nerves and everything feels heightened and it is _exactly_ right. His hand pushes through my hair and I grunt as he pulls me up onto the mattress, his body tight behind me. I can feel how hard he is and it makes me shake with excitement.

When his mouth seals against the skin of my neck, I feel another wave of relief. He mouths down my spine, his hand still firmly in my hair and he nips at my skin as he goes. I try to relax under him, and rest my head on the bed to give him better access.

“You’re being so good.” He moves up to my ear and I practically melt at the affirmation. He bites the flesh of my neck and I moan into the bedding, my body thrumming. He shifts and I feel his hand at my entrance, a gentle pressure that makes me jump. I know I’m probably squirming, but the _need_ is becoming overwhelming.

“...drenched, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

His voice pulls me out of my thoughts and I try to respond, but he moves fast around me, pulling his pants down without hesitation. His arm circles my neck, and without warning, I feel him press his cock into me with the full force of his weight. If I could make a sound, I would have screamed. I can feel the groan of pleasure radiate through his chest against my back as he moves behind me, pressing me hard into the mattress. The compression of his weight on me is unbearable, and it feels absolutely _freeing_.

The pressure of him inside me is more than I expected and it _hurts_. Not that I didn’t get a good peek last time but it feels as big as it looked, and it knocks my senses out of orbit. My brain is firing in a million directions as the heavy slam of his body into mine pushes my neck into his arm. It feels like I’m going to break into pieces. The rush of arousal and desire makes me compliant, but I pull at his arm to get enough leverage for air. His grip tightens.

“Your cunt is mine now,” he breathes heavy into my ear and it makes me throb, “and I’ll do what I want with it.”

If it was anyone else I’d laugh them off of me, but with him, it feels dangerously predictive. One of the many benefits of Ben Solo is he really does have an inflated sense of his authority and ownership. It makes me shake beneath him, my body singing with pleasure and obedience. It’s _dangerous_ for him to feel this good. This natural.

His thrusts are so deep and forceful, I don’t notice his arm disappearing from my neck because I _still_ can’t catch a proper breath. His thrusts knock the air out of my lungs faster than I can replace it, and my head swims with stars. His hand fists my hair, and he lifts me up off the mattress with a painful pull. I gasp as he bends me up towards him, the fullness of him overpowering every other sensation. His grip in my hair tightens, and I cry out from the pain of it.

At the sound of my voice he bites at my neck. “Good,” his voice fills my ear, and I feel my insides disintegrate. The force of him slamming into me makes me feel like my spine is going to explode like Jenga blocks as he holds me up, pulling and positioning the whole weight of my body.

Air finally makes it way into my lungs and I can hear the pain in my voice as I try to reach back for him. “Wait.” My throat is thick hoarse and I feel him grip my jaw - the pressure radiating into my teeth.

“That’s not how this works.” His voice is rough and heady and I moan as he sends me into the mattress, the sharp smack of his hand hitting my ass makes me jump and I feel myself whimper into the sheets below me, the sound of skin against skin echoing in my ears. He hovers over me, his pace slowing as one hand circles my neck and the other reaches around between my legs. My body jolts at the sensation, the atoms of my body vibrating apart with every second that passes.

At this slightly less intense speed I can feel him move in and out of me, and it's sickeningly intoxicating. He’s _too_ big, and it stretches me with every movement. I don’t think I have ever felt this  _full_ before in my life. He tightens his grip on my neck just enough to make me dizzy. The next moan from lips is one purely of pleasure, the relentless snapping of his hips against mine hits all the right spots, and I can feel myself tighten around him, a wave of warmth at my centre setting my nerves on fire.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” he warns, but he doesn’t remove his hand from between my legs. He presses hard against me, his grip on my neck tightening and I know it is going to happen, my core fluttering around him as his rhythm keeps in time with the waves of pleasure rolling through me.  

“Don’t.” His voice is loud and demanding and the lack of oxygen makes me feel like I will float straight up into outer space. His thumb grinds into my clit, and I pulse beneath him, unable to stop the overflow of pleasure as it explodes into the bright light of ecstasy. I bite my lip to stop from making a sound but I’m not as successful as I’d like. My face in his sheets, I ride the feeling, his body anchoring mine as I fade back to reality.

I feel myself go limp under him as my body catches up with my brain. My ragged breathing is undercut by the sharp withdrawal of his body from mine and I hiss, the loss of him instantly sets me on edge.

“You are _not_ a very good listener.” His reprimand is hard to take seriously as I come down from the high, but he flips me over and I start to catch my breath, bracing myself for whatever is about to happen. Instead, I feel his face nudge mine. His body melts down, and he hovers above me on his elbows. The warmth of his skin soothes every inch of me it touches. This is all too much.

“Don’t close your eyes.” His tone is soft, and it feels like a question. I hadn’t even realized they were closed. I blink a bit, trying to look up, but he’s _too close_ and I can’t focus. I can feel him smiling, and I practically _feel_ his ego swelling around me.

“Look at me.”

I feel instantly uneasy, my heart still racing, and I try, I mean I _really try_ , to look at him, but I can’t. And I can’t explain why. He waits a beat before I feel him shift, his fingers running over my cheek and I wince at the touch, still thrumming from the welcomed assault he’s inflicted on me.

“Hey. I need you to look at me.” His tone is less passive and I glance up at him, his eyes on mine, but I turn away and close my eyes, the discomfort starting to fill my veins. He huffs and tilts my jaw towards him, the pressure firm but not forceful. He doesn’t say anything and I feel him waiting above me, the pressure and intimacy of the situation makes me shift under him and I can feel my lip tremble.

“I find it so curious that _this_ is what makes you uncomfortable,” he whispers. I want to snap that _actually_ , it is quite reasonable, and he’s being a jerk by forcing me, but the irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. He’s not in control if I’m still in control. The delightful grip of submission tightens around my spine and the sensation thrums through me.

What feels like hours pass, but in reality was probably seconds, before I curse and my eyelids flutter open, trailing up the features of his face before resting on his eyes. They are lighter than I thought they were. Softer. They almost look younger than the face that surrounds them. The warm brown bleeds out into a ring of hazel-green, and I never noticed until now. Maybe I had never really looked.

It feels like the air leaves the room, and I freeze beneath his stare. What is it that he is looking for? To know I’m okay? To know he can make me do something I truly don’t want to do? Looking back at him, I don’t understand what I see, but it scares me. He scares me. For totally different reasons than anticipated.

He studies me for a minute before he leans down and I feel his mouth on mine, the wet warmth of him releasing whatever tension I had built up within myself. I’m grateful for the excuse to close my eyes, even if it is too intimate to feel his tongue run over mine. His teeth pull on my lip and I sigh, the unexpected rush of pleasure surprising me as he deepens the kiss and I feel his groan through his rib cage.

“I really wanted to keep playing with you, but I don't think I can wait.” He shifts above me and I feel him reposition himself against me.

He presses in slowly and I wince, swearing as he redistributes the tender flesh inside me. I am going to _hurt_ tomorrow. It presses the air out of my body as he bottoms out, and I instinctively grip at his back.

“I know you like things your way, but I get to come how I want to. Sound fair?” I instantly have a million questions, most of them starting with, _“That wasn’t the deal.”_ But he snaps into me and I swear under him, the pain fading slightly with every thrust.  

His mouth finds mine and his hand disappears into my hair. He tugs on me, not to inflict pain, but to give him better access to my lips and I can feel the wheels working over time in my brain. _What is he going to do to me?_ His grip on me is restrictive - he pulls and moves me with unrelenting control. He is aggressive, overwhelming even. From the outside, it might not look like things are much different, but it feels light years away.

It is almost… worshipful.

He hits that spot inside me over and _over_ again and his hand slides up my body, gripping my neck, not with force, but almost with assurance.

“You’re so beautiful.” The words fall out of his mouth and he lifts my legs around his torso, hitting deeper and deeper with every thrust. My body responds despite itself. He’s so...encompassing. He fills every space he wants to. My sight, my thoughts, my body. All of it is overwritten with _him_ and it is a foreign type of control that I don’t recognize.  

I arch under him, my voice catching every time he fills me. He moves his hand between us and I nearly stop him - _there is no way I can come like this_ \- but he picks up his pace and thumbs my clit until I’m twitching around him. It feels like I am going to splinter. He presses my wrist into the mattress with his free hand, moving fast above me and keeping his momentum with agonizing intensity. He’s _relentless_. I can feel myself fluttering towards release, the insanity of the situation stalling me, and I try to move myself away from his hand. I don’t understand how he is managing to do this so quickly but -

“Don’t fight it.” His voice is dark and focused, the pressure building inside me catches on his words, and I stop trying to move away.

His hips slam hard into me, and the heat of him inside me pulls a cry from my throat even though I try to control it. He feels indescribable. My body is nearly seizing when the exploding pressure crests and I gasp into his mouth, coming hard around him. The senseless void of pleasure pulls me from reality hard and fast, and I barely hear the, “ _good girl,_ ” rumble out of his throat over my own voice.

As I come down, the unmistakable pulse of him finishing inside me follows, and I moan into the kiss he steals from my unprepared mouth. I could listen to him come on a loop forever, the deep sound of his gratification warms me with pride and contentment. Biologically, my body wants to seal us whole. For a second, I want him to exist in me for forever, and I lock my ankles around his hips as I grip his shoulders like a lifeboat. Waves of muted satisfaction fall over me, and I struggle to steady my breath under his weight. Rationally, there are sirens and warning bells triggering through me, louder and more aggressive with each passing second.

There is a dam somewhere inside me holding back an overflow of uncertainty and doubt. But for now I can only ignore it, the blissful ignorance of the _now_ filling every corner of my being. And it is euphoric.  

He shifts, coming to rest beside me, his breathing laboured and harsh. He pulls me into him and I nearly bounce out of the bed with a, “ _I don’t usually cuddle_ ,” but then I would have to address all of the other things I don’t normally do, which I _did_ , and that seems like tomorrow-Rey’s problem.

After a few moments the heat leaves my body. It is replaced by a cool spread of goosebumps, the pain breaking through the fading rush of endorphins. I shiver and he leans over, running his hand down my arm.

He doesn’t say anything as he moves off the bed, pulling me towards him and into his chest as we head to the bathroom. Suddenly, it feels like I ran a marathon in the woods. Every inch of me throbs and I sniff into him, my eyes filling. He places me on the toilet and I bite back a whimper as he pulls away to fill the tub.

“I’ll give you a minute.” He presses his mouth at my temple and closes the door behind him.

In the emptiness of the room I can’t control the overwhelming emotional reaction that charges through me at the reality of being _alone_. I feel tears spill over and I press a hand to my mouth to stop from making a sound. This is normal. It is a totally normal reaction to come down from the high and experience a drop. I pee as quickly as I can; the tissue paper stings and I wince at the small streak of blood. Shit, he is going to take some getting used to. As I flush, he knocks on the door, and I wipe away as much evidence of my tears as possible from my cheeks.

He steps into the room and takes one look at me before advancing. I can’t see straight through fresh tears, but he pulls me tight into his arms a second before my chest heaves with an uncontrollable silent sob. The dam breaks and everything collapses inside of me, and the protective cushion of adrenaline pops so acutely I almost hear it. It is replaced by something dark.  

_What is wrong with me?_

“I’m here.” He grips me tighter and it causes a larger wave of shame and anxiety to ricochet around my bones. He stops the flow of water, and pulls back slightly. I know I must look a mess - I can hear myself hiccup slightly for air and he directs me into the tub.

“I’m _here_. It’s okay.” I step into the water and follow him into a sitting position that lets me curl slightly on top of him, my face buried in his chest. The water bites at my bruising skin, and I give up trying to stop the floods of tears that pour out of me. He holds me firmly against his body, hands rubbing down my back as I exhaust the air in my lungs and my eyes burn with tears.

Suddenly, _everything_ is rushing towards the surface, and it paralyzes me. I can feel the other side of him and it hurts its so palpable. He’s needed me as badly as I’ve needed him. And I haven’t been there. I never asked what _he_ needed. I’ve just been watching him bang his head against the figurative wall of self-preservation.

“I’m sorry,” my halted breath makes my voice break. He won’t know what I’m actually apologizing for anyways.

“ _Don’t_ apologize, Rey,” he replies as he pulls a handful of water over my shoulders. “I want to be here with you,” he assures, and it freezes my thoughts in place. I think that’s the first time he has said my name. It sets my senses alight with hyper-awareness and grounds me all at once. 

I let out a breath I had been holding as he continues to caress the water up my back and over my shoulders. The repetitive wave of warmth soothes my frenzied nerves until the ache in my chest feels culled by his fingertips.

I can see the hidden parts of him in this moment. The parts that have been desperately flailing for attention. For validation. For solidarity. Briefly, like a burst of lightning, his hold on me feels like a hand reaching out in the darkness. Desperate to find its other half, suspended in perpetual uncertainty and hope. A feeling I’ve become painfully familiar with.

For a second I can see the future. It’s a flash of clarity that disappears before I can even understand it.  
  
My reflection.  
  
That’s what I saw when I looked in his eyes. _Myself_.

“You’re not alone,” he reassures, but now it sounds like a question. He presses his nose into my hair, his mouth on my ear as if it had always belonged there. His fingers thread through mine, and I feel the uncertainty that echoes through his limbs.

My voice is stronger than I feel as I lift my face up towards him. “Neither are you.”

 

**End**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3 If you enjoyed, let me know! You can follow me on Tumblr [here.](https://grey-orchids.tumblr.com/)


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